


so servile it's vile (part 1)

by likecharity



Series: so servile it's vile [1]
Category: British Comedy RPF, Taskmaster (UK TV) RPF
Genre: Awkwardness, BDSM, Crying, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub, Embarrassment, Humiliation, Kink Exploration, Kneeling, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Shame, Verbal Humiliation, excessive stammering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 21:11:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17373401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likecharity/pseuds/likecharity
Summary: "C'mon, Alex, I imagine you've been like this for a decent portion of your life," says Greg impatiently. "Are you telling me you've never analysed it?""I guess I just—I like—I like pleasing people," Alex says feebly, accepting the fact that he's trapped in this conversation."What, and you think it pleases me when you make a fool of yourself on telly?""Well—" Alex struggles to get his words out, "it—yeah, I think it does."Greg is visibly taken aback. He thinks for a moment. "Yeah, I suppose it does, doesn't it?""What, have you never analysed it?""Cheeky bugger."





	so servile it's vile (part 1)

**Author's Note:**

> So I watched all of Taskmaster last month, and listen. It's REALLY KINKY. I'm very upset about it and this is what's ended up happening as a result. I guess it was meant to be porn but it ended up more like some kind of psychosexual character study or something. Either way I didn't WANT to want to write it, but. Here it is, so. I'm very sorry. I guess I needed to get it out of my system.
> 
> It sort of makes the most sense if you imagine it's set during a future season? There are references to things that have happened throughout the show, including the outtakes because there's...a lot of questionable things in those. The title is something Greg said about Alex in one of the intros, which Alex PRESUMABLY WROTE HIMSELF.
> 
> I can't believe I used the daddy kink tag. I never thought my life would come to this. I'm honestly furious.

"You get off on it, don't you?" Greg says one day, after filming, standing in Alex's dressing room, still in his suit. He says it as casually as anything, the way he might say "Terrible weather, isn't it?", apropos of nothing and so conversational that it takes Alex several seconds to parse the question.

Then Alex says, "Sorry?" and he means it like "Sorry, what on earth are you talking about?" but it comes out more like "Sorry, yes, I'm disgusting," and Greg says nothing for so long that Alex is genuinely afraid he might throw up from anxiety and then—

"Hmm, I thought so."

Greg smiles, knowingly, and with a flick of his thumb, locks the dressing room door in a gesture that is absolutely loaded with meaning and yet, to Alex, in his current state of bewilderment, completely incomprehensible.

The thing is—the thing is, Alex is pretty sure he knows what Greg is talking about. He doesn't know what exactly prompted Greg to raise the subject; as far as he knows he didn't do anything particularly Questionable today that would raise any eyebrows, but the truth is he's not all that good anymore at _recognising_ when he's being Questionable. Things just sort of—happen, because of who he is as a person. It's unfortunate. But it's really not always intentional, and he _really_ didn't think it was the kind of thing that anyone had picked up on. Not seriously, anyway. Of course, there's a sort of theme, they've got—roles, and sometimes things get out of hand enough that certain scenes need to be cut from broadcast, but that's—that's just the show, isn't it, it's like acting. And everybody goes along with it. Surely there's no reason to think that Alex, in particular, is enjoying it more than anyone else, or more than he should. More than is strictly professionally appropriate.

Unfortunately, Alex is pretty sure that by now he's missed his chance to proclaim his innocence. He was too startled by the question to try and mount any sort of defence. Perhaps that was Greg's reason for springing it on him in such a way, showing up at his door like this almost immediately after filming—Alex had only just had time to get changed, and didn't even have a chance to put socks on because of Greg's insistent knocking. 

Anyway, surprise aside, clearly he shouldn't have just said "Sorry?" like that. He should've said "What the fuck are you talking about?" Perhaps that would have been more convincing, if a little aggressive. "Sorry?" obviously wasn't enough to get across that he was asking for elaboration. But really, you can't just say "You get off on it, don't you?" to somebody out of nowhere; how are they supposed to know what 'it' is—'it' could be anything—you can't then act like they've admitted to something when nobody's even said what the subject at hand actually is. Surely that's not _fair_. Strictly speaking, the actual exchange made no discernible sense, and yet—Alex is certain that he has given himself away. He feels exposed. He's too quiet, too flustered, to act clueless now. He's been caught. And Greg knows it.

He's just standing there watching Alex. He clearly has no intention of doing anything, explaining himself—he's waiting for Alex to make the next move, waiting to see what he'll do.

What Alex does is babble.

"I," he says pointlessly, frowning at him. "What's—? I mean—how—why—"

"Care to finish one of those sentences?" Greg asks, looking particularly amused. "Or are you just throwing out interrogatives?"

Alex doesn't know where to start, or whether he even _wants_ to. There are several questions currently whirling around his brain but the thought of voicing any of them seems ridiculous. How does he know? What made him ask? What gave it away? He supposes all of those pretty much boil down to the same thing, but there's also _why would he bring it up?_

"No? Nothing to say for yourself?" Greg asks. He says it innocently enough, but he is advancing. He is like—a shark. A very very tall shark in a suit. Alex is maybe getting hysterical. He doesn't know what Greg wants him to say.

"Listen," he says eventually. He can't help it, he can't keep it in. He's holding his hands up as if he needs to protect himself. "All right, fine, I—I just—listen, when did you—when did you work it out?"

Greg laughs, derisive but cheery. "Well, it wasn't _hard_ , Alex," he says. "You've got a submissive streak a mile wide, and a public humiliation fetish you can see from space. I'm not even gonna get into your weird food thing. It's always been fairly obvious that you're a kinky little fucker."

 _Oh, god._ Hearing Greg say those things is—well, it's extremely surreal, extremely embarrassing, and also, horribly, weirdly exciting. All he can say is, "You—you knew all along?"

"Pretty much," Greg confirms with a shrug of his shoulders. He might be bluffing— _please, God, let him be bluffing_ —but he's so convincing it makes Alex squirm with humiliation at the thought of...of all the things they've done, that Alex has tried to pass off as merely jokes, but Greg _knew_ , knew his ulterior motive, knew he was getting off on it all along—

"I mean you haven't exactly been subtle," Greg goes on. He takes another step towards Alex and Alex instinctively steps back, shying away. "The stuff you write for the autocue alone, mate. Not to mention the shit that slips out when you're not thinking." Alex feels himself beginning to blush. "And then there's the way you just _do_ whatever bizarre shit I want you to do…you don't ever even really question it, it's just straight in. And you get all weird after—" oh god, he's noticed that Alex gets weird after. Alex tries so, _so_ hard not to get noticeably weird after! "—sort of shifty and distracted, but _happy_ , it's like it radiates off you, this weird satisfaction, I can't describe it."

"I can't believe you've known all along," Alex hears himself saying, his voice flat. For some reason that's the only thing he can really process right now.

Greg chuckles. " _I_ can't believe you thought you were keeping it a secret. I'm pretty sure _everybody_ knows. The contestants, the crew, the audience..."

Alex shivers at that. The thought, true or not, is humiliating, but in that particularly sort of thrilling way that Alex finds certain things. It's like some of the wires in his brain are crossed; he gets mixed up, sometimes, about what should feel good and what should feel bad, and sometimes it's both, and it creates some unique, exquisite feeling that he's never been able to explain.

"Does your wife know?"

Alex is startled by the question; nods without thinking.

"Yeah, of course she does," says Greg, his voice low. "Did she notice you were coming home all worked up after filming days?"

Alex can only nod again, because unfortunately, embarrassingly, it's true. He _does_ get all worked up on filming days—maybe not every single one, but more often than not Greg does _something_ that gets him going, leaves him all excited and needy by the end of the day. Of course his wife noticed, and it didn't take long at all for her to pry the reason out of him.

"And what does she think, hmm?"

Alex swallows. "She—she thinks it's f-funny."

Greg laughs at that, like he's genuinely delighted. He steps forward again and now he's crowding Alex into a corner, which is—which is something in itself, isn't it, being closed in on like this, Greg towering over him, making it so he has no escape. "Oh, I bet she does. It _is_ funny, isn't it? That you're such a weird little pervert."

Alex doesn't know what to say; finds himself simply nodding again. He realises with a sinking feeling that he's starting to get hard. Greg has said worse things to him and he's managed—rather commendably, he thinks—to remain cool and impassive, but that's when they're surrounded by people and cameras. It's different like this, locked in a quiet little dressing room, just the two of them. It makes it much harder to quell the excitement.

"Say it," demands Greg. "Say you're a weird little pervert."

Alex hesitates, but Greg is looking at him imploringly, in that _way_ he has when he wants something, that Alex finds so hard to refuse. He hears himself saying the words before he's even fully aware he's decided to. "I'm a weird little pervert."

He can't help but let out a little giggle at the silliness of the sentence, and to his relief Greg grins. A tiny bit of the tension between them seems to dissipate—of course, there's still plenty more, Alex can feel it all around him, oppressive—but just for a moment they're grinning at each other and it feels like maybe all of this is no big deal after all. Maybe it's all just a bit of a joke.

But then Greg's face turns serious again and he says, "You're a weird little pervert and you get off on me making you do stupid shit in front of people," and that—well, that's escalating things a little, isn't it.

Alex just nods again. He shifts his weight slightly from one foot to the other, feeling the way his dick is now pressing uncomfortably against the zipper of his jeans.

"Say it."

Alex takes a deep breath. "I like it when you make me do stupid shit in front of people," he says, all in a rush.

"You get _hard_ when I make you do stupid shit in front of people," Greg amends.

"I get—" Alex gasps as Greg suddenly reaches out to grab him through his trousers, squeezing tight. "I get h—" he struggles to make himself say the words, shuts his eyes and finds it easier, "I get hard when you make me do stupid shit in front of people."

Greg laughs, pleased, and lets go, and for a moment Alex thinks that's the end of it. Maybe Greg is just going to have a bit of a giggle at Alex's expense and then go on with his life, harbouring some pretty excellent blackmail material.

But then, when Alex opens his eyes again warily, Greg's looking at him with a weird sort of intensity in his gaze.

"So listen," he says, "I'm assuming from the way you talked about your wife that I'm not the only one that provides this particular outlet for you."

"I," says Alex, and then "what?" How very eloquent. He wants to hit himself in the head.

"Your wife," Greg says, and Alex notices that something in his voice is different now—not so teasing anymore, not like he's laughing at him, like he's really genuinely interested. "I'm assuming she bosses you around a bit. Embarrasses you, maybe, when you want it."

"I," says Alex again. He takes a breath, decides honesty is the best policy even if he still doesn't actually know quite what's going on. "Well, yes."

"And does she let other people partake in those particular sorts of activities with you?"

 _Oh._ That makes Alex's heart leap into his throat. "Yes," he says, without any hesitation or waffling this time. This, he wants to make clear.

"Interesting," says Greg. "Interesting. So what is it?"

"Um. What?"

"What is it about it, you know, that gets you off?" Greg elaborates.

"Uh," says Alex, his mind blank. "This is all very surreal, you know," he adds, because it feels like the sort of thing that ought to be said.

"I'm aware," says Greg with a slight chuckle.

"It's, er—" Alex stumbles. He still doesn't know where this is going. He knows where he _hopes_ it's going, but Greg is behaving so oddly he honestly doesn't know what to think. "Greg, you know, this—this topic of conversation is making me very uncomfortable."

Greg laughs. "I can see that." He pauses, and then, very deliberately, glances down at Alex's crotch. "I can also see that it hasn't done anything to make you go soft."

Alex shifts. "Well," he says, and then no other words come to mind, so he goes silent.

Greg laughs. " _Relax_ , Alex," he says, and somehow he's authoritative enough that just saying it makes Alex do so, at least marginally. He feels a tiny bit of tension drain out of his muscles, feels himself slump a little against the wall. "I'm just curious. Not exactly standard, is it. Pretty fucked up, really, when you get right down to it."

The way he's talking about it is extremely demeaning, and Alex sort of resents that, but also that perverted part of him really sort of loves it as well. He wants to tell Greg to stop winding him up and just do some basic Google searches, and then, once he's left, Alex can have a good wank. Well, probably not an especially good one, because he's in his dressing room, and there are people outside, and he ought to get home, but—he definitely needs to touch himself, and soon.

"C'mon, Alex, I imagine you've been like this for a decent portion of your life," says Greg impatiently. "Are you telling me you've never analysed it?"

"I guess I just—I like—I like pleasing people," Alex says feebly, accepting the fact that he's trapped in this conversation.

"What, and you think it pleases me when you make a fool of yourself on telly?"

"Well—" Alex struggles to get his words out, "it—yeah, I think it does."

Greg is visibly taken aback. He thinks for a moment. "Yeah, I suppose it does, doesn't it?"

"What, have you never analysed it?"

"Cheeky bugger."

Alex is pleased with himself for saying it, because the thing is, it's _not_ always Alex that starts it, and he isn't going to let Greg pretend otherwise. If anything Greg's the instigator _more_ often, and Alex could swear it excites him too—there've been times when he's noticed a particularly wicked glint in Greg's eye, a sort of _glee_ that he can't seem to contain, that makes him trip over his words. And sometimes, Greg pushes things a little too far—when Alex looks back later, when he's come down from it all, he can see the moment when a different person would probably have stopped, but Greg went a tiny step further, just enough to push things from "harmless comedic fun" to "bordering on weird and uncomfortable". And maybe it's just a matter of one-upsmanship—Alex is so willing to go along with any and all kinds of public humiliation, and Greg doesn't like to be outdone, so he'll respond to everything Alex does with a "Yes, and?" until the producers start muttering in his ear to move the show along. But maybe it's something else. Maybe he enjoys it the same way Alex does. The _weird_ way.

"Touch yourself."

The words snap Alex back to reality instantly and for a moment he's stunned into silence. He wants Greg to say it again, partly to confirm that Alex heard him correctly and partly because he was too startled to fully appreciate the sound of such a command in Greg's voice. But Greg is so confident, even with Alex presumably gawking at him like an idiot—he isn't going to repeat himself, and he isn't going to get awkward and start stammering out apologies for making assumptions. He's just going to stand there with his arms crossed, waiting for Alex to obey. Like it's a foregone conclusion.

"Oh—I don't—" Alex eventually hears himself protesting weakly, and why is he protesting, this is a _fantasy come true_. It's too much, he never thought something like this would ever happen and now that it is he doesn't know how to fucking deal with it.

"Hm?" Greg prompts, actually cupping his hand to his ear and leaning in, like a dick. God, he's such a dick, and Alex loves it, and he feels so stupid and so, so horny. He's suddenly very aware of the disparity of their outfits—Greg still all dressed up in his suit while Alex is in his baggy Snoopy sweater and some ratty old jeans, and _barefoot_ , for god's sake. It makes him feel smaller, younger, stupider. Like Greg is a teacher and he's a schoolboy. Greg's certainly had lots of experience playing his part.

"Sorry, I was under the impression you had a _raging hard-on_. Don't you?" Greg asks. Of course, the words themselves aren't something a teacher would say, but the tone of voice is spot-on, and his air of authority is so, so stupidly sexy. Alex says nothing. "What's that? Speak up."

"I do," mumbles Alex. His face feels so hot. He must be blushing horribly.

"You do what?"

 _Oh, god, of course._ Alex is literally squirming now. "I do have a raging hard-on," he admits. Hearing himself say the words makes his face burn even more. 

"Correct," says Greg, reaching out to grab at him again, which is wholly unnecessary and has the effect of making Alex buck his hips forward in an extremely embarrassing and pathetic way. "So, what is it then? You don't want to touch yourself in front of me? I would've thought that was exactly the sort of thing that would get you going."

Alex makes a ridiculous whimpering sound as Greg stops squeezing and instead starts feeling out the shape of him in his trousers, sort of curious and methodical, as if assessing just how desperate Alex is. Alex holds his breath, partly so he doesn't make that stupid noise again, and leans into the touch, and then, abruptly, Greg snatches his hand away.

"I'm not going to do it for you," he sneers. 

The subtext behind his words is _that's not what this is_ , and Alex gets it. Greg humiliating him, humiliating himself in front of Greg—that's exactly how Alex wants this to go. Greg acting like wanking Alex off is _beneath_ him only adds to Alex's arousal and at this point there's so much of it he honest to god feels dizzy. It's so stupid, this is _so stupid_ —who gets so turned on by somebody mocking them that they actually get weak in the knees? He's so weird, he's so weird, he's so weird, and the shame of it all is just making everything worse. It's a spiral. Alex is spiralling.

"Now," says Greg, calmly. "On your knees."

Alex's train of thought does a record-scratch. "Oh," he says stupidly. "Greg, please—"

"Ah ah, no whining," Greg cuts him off. "On your knees for me. Now."

It's something about the "for me" that does it; triggers the pure submissive instinct and desire to please within Alex that has him dropping to his knees in a second. And it feels—well. It feels amazing. It's a relief, actually, somehow. He wasn't consciously aware of _wanting_ to be on his knees but the moment they hit the worn carpet it feels like that's where they should have been all along. Now Greg is even _taller_ , looking down on him from an even greater height, and that feels good too. Alex shifts; gets comfortable.

"There. That wasn't so hard, was it? I imagine it's not an unfamiliar position for you. Now before we go any further, I'm going to need to make sure that all these little protests of yours are as half-hearted as they seem. Obviously, if you want to stop, we stop. You only have to say so. But I'm _assuming_ you are actually enjoying this and you're only fussing because you're ashamed. Would I be correct in that assumption?"

Alex nods.

"Say it."

"I'm enjoying it, I'm just ashamed," Alex mumbles, all in a rush.

"Good." Greg's mouth quirks. "But I think you rather like being ashamed, don't you?"

Alex feels a surge of arousal at the mere acknowledgment of the fact. He takes a shaky breath and nods again, vehement this time. He likes it so, so much, and Greg is so good at shaming him it's unbelievable. Why haven't they been doing this all along, without the cameras and the audience, without the unspoken boundary lines? If Greg has really known all along, _why did he wait so damn long to say anything?_

"Good," Greg says again. "So as I was saying—I'm guessing this is a familiar position for you." Alex nods. "How many times, would you say, have you been on your knees like this in front of somebody?"

Alex swallows. "Too many to count," he admits truthfully and a little shyly, feeling an anxious smile tug at his lips.

Greg smiles back, clearly pleased with the answer. "I thought so."

 _And how many times have you bossed somebody around like this?_ Alex wants to ask, _because you're really quite frighteningly good at it._

"What is it you like about it?"

Oh, he's so cruel, it's fantastic. Alex tries to think but his brain is mud. Sludge. Soup. 

"I'm waiting for an answer, Alex," Greg says in that tone and Alex has to, he _has_ to reach down and touch himself, just a little, just an _adjustment_ really—"Ah ah, hands off. Hands off until you've answered the question, you desperate little slut."

Alex makes an small noise in response to that, the pejorative equal parts unexpected and thrilling. He takes his hand away and tries harder to think, to muddle his fuzzy thoughts into something logical.

"I like," he begins, feeling embarrassed already, before he's even started. It's warm and tingly and distracting. "I like, um—I like being on my knees because it—" He stumbles. Greg's eyes on him are so _penetrating_ , looking down at him over the rim of his glasses. He stares at the floor instead, and that makes it easier. "I like the way it makes me feel like I'm—inferior. And small. I guess you always make me feel small," he adds, which is meant to be a bit of a joke but doesn't quite come across as such. Neither of them laughs, anyway. He keeps speaking, very fast. "It feels like uh—like I'm weak and powerless and I'm waiting to uh—to—ah, um— _serve_. To do whatever the other person wants me to do."

"There you go. Good answer," Greg says, and he reaches out to pat him on the head. Alex lets out an involuntary groan and doesn't need to look up to know that Greg is smirking.

He feels a bit fuzzy. Greg's hand stays resting on his head and it just—it feels very big, and then it starts sort of stroking at his hair. It's like Greg is petting him. He's on his knees and Greg is _petting him_. A second too late he realises he's losing his balance and swaying forward slightly and, panicking, he makes an ill-advised grab at Greg's leg to steady himself.

"Woah there," Greg chuckles, gently easing Alex back and holding him there, at a distance. Alex can only look up at him, a little blankly. "None of that, thank you," Greg adds, and Alex realises how he must have misinterpreted those movements and blushes hot and fierce again, embarrassment flooding his body. It shouldn't be so humiliating given that that _wasn't_ actually what he was going for—but then, maybe subconsciously he was, habitually perhaps, due to his current position and headspace. He wasn't thinking, he just felt floaty and tipsy and _good_ , and maybe just for a second he wasn't quite in control of his own body. He has to pull himself together.

"This isn't even sexual for me, you know," Greg goes on, his tone casual as he lets go of Alex and regards him with amusement, "it's just fun, innit? Watching you squirm."

Alex doesn't know if he's actually telling the truth—Greg's crotch is basically at eye level so it's not like he can help noticing that his trousers seem a little tight—but in a way it doesn't matter. It's better like this, because—because maybe something's broken in his brain, he doesn't know, but it's _definitely_ better with Greg acting all detached and bemused instead of actively engaging. He wouldn't know what do to with himself if Greg actually—if Greg actually _wanted_ him, but this way he doesn't have to think about that. Greg can play it however he wants and so far he's getting it perfect. This feels so right, it's almost scary. It's like everything they've been doing on TV has all been practice, building up to something a lot more real.

"Go on, then," says Greg. "Touch yourself and tell me about all your dirty little fantasies."

Alex splutters out an involuntary little laugh and regrets it. It's not that he finds it funny; it's just—he can't believe it's actually _happening_. "What—" he starts, "Greg, I don't—" he hears the urgency in his own voice, "I don't know what you want me to say."

"It's not complicated, Alex," says Greg huffily, crossing his arms again which is such a simple thing and yet so powerful. Alex is once again aware of how small and stupid he feels, and his cock twitches and he really really wishes he could touch it. He has to do what Greg wants. "Jesus, you're so turned on your little brain's not even functioning. All you want is to get your hand on your dick, isn't it?"

Alex makes a small sound in the back of his throat, hands twitching at his sides, clasping and unclasping spasmodically.

"I'll make it simple for you, shall I? I want you to tell me something we did—or something you did, on the show, that you were secretly getting off on."

Alex thinks wonderingly that it's crazy how Greg knows just how to get him going. Alex has always been terrible at—at talking dirty, or voicing his weird desires, and being _made_ to in a scenario like this one is a sure-fire way to get him extremely worked up. And Greg shouldn't _know_ something like that, but then, if he's telling the truth, he's had years to figure out when Alex is in his comfort zone and when he's out of it, and when that brings excitement and when it doesn't. Even if he's bluffing about knowing all along, there's still a back catalogue of incidents to draw on, as well as things learned unconsciously, simply through working alongside somebody. It may be the first time they've done this, but they've done so many other versions of something _like_ it that it comes naturally.

Alex stalls. "I thought—I thought you said you knew," he stammers.

"Well I have my suspicions, yeah," Greg says, "but it'd be nice to have them confirmed."

"God," says Alex. "I don't know wh-"

"Where to start?" Greg teases. "Come on. First thing to come to mind. I know you're thinking of something."

He's right. "The—the dances," Alex manages to get out, his voice weak.

"Hm? The what?" 

Greg heard him perfectly well, he's sure. "The dances, when you made me do the stupid dances onstage before the shows."

"Funny you'd say that. That's one of the things that really started making me wonder," Greg muses, and doesn't seem to notice the slip-up, the giveaway that he didn't just know from day one. "Okay, you can get your cock out. I can see you're dying to."

Alex nods gratefully. "Thank you." The 'Sir' is on the tip of his tongue and he has to bite it back; just _almost_ saying it flusters him so badly he's struggling to get his fly undone, sweaty fingers slipping on the zipper. Finally he manages it, fumbling to push his boxers down out of the way and the relief of finally getting his hand around his dick is so immense that for a split second he almost forgets that he's being observed. Then he remembers, and shudders, his fist tight around himself as he feels himself flush hot all over.

"God, you're blushing right to the tips of your ears," Greg comments. "It's humiliating, isn't it? Exposing yourself in front of a co-worker?" Alex is sure he's deliberately picked that word for the lack of intimacy it implies; surely, _surely_ they're more than co-workers. "Especially when you're all hard and desperate like that. So embarrassing, how badly you need it. You can't control yourself."

All Alex can do is nod. As humiliating as it is, he's too turned on to hold back at this point; Greg has got him so keyed up all he can really think about is the need for pressure and friction, the urge to _come_. He spits into his hand and starts stroking himself rapidly, hunching over so he doesn't have to look up at Greg. It would be too much, it's already too much just feeling the presence of him looming like that, and looking at his shiny dress shoes. What if he came on Greg's shoes, he thinks somewhat hysterically. What if Greg made him clean them with his tongue—

"Sit up straight," Greg snaps suddenly, and Alex obeys almost without thinking, his mind clearing a little just from the sound of the instruction. He shuts his eyes. "Slow it down a bit. You're not a teenager, I'm hoping you can last more than three minutes."

"Uh huh," Alex says, a bit dazed, hand slowing—it's more embarrassing like this, like he's really letting Greg see, like he's putting on a show.

"And don't think you're done talking," Greg goes on. "I want details. I have to say I really can't see what's hot about me making you prance around like a horse or imitate a bird of prey, so please, enlighten me."

He makes it sound even stupider, even weirder, putting it like that. "It wasn't—wasn't those things in particular," Alex manages to get out, although, actually, the fact that the dances Greg chose often required Alex to be on his knees, or on all fours, or—on his front with his arse in the air—

"Mm? What was it, then?" Greg prompts.

Alex's mouth is dry and he swallows, trying to think more clearly but now he's remembering it, the twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach when Greg made him get in that position, feeling the audience's eyes on him, hearing their laughter as he awkwardly tried to arch his back. It felt like—too much, too _blatant_. He remembers how he got too shy, tried to stop, and how Greg wouldn't allow it, made him get back down and try again before finally taking pity. And Alex had done it, even though something about the situation this time made him feel a little sick, like this was going too far, like it _meant_ something that these were the sort of things crossing Greg's mind in the heat of the moment, and that he was giving himself away by simply obeying. He couldn't look Greg in the eye for a bit, afterwards.

He's not aware that he's drifting, hand slow and steady working on himself as he relives the memory, until Greg speaks again.

"I asked you a question, Alex." He sounds impatient.

"I can't think properly," Alex blurts out, feeling ridiculous for it, hanging his head.

"Okay, maybe stop touching yourself then if you find it so difficult to think and wank at the same time," Greg snaps, and Alex nods quickly and takes his hand away, trying to ignore the way he aches at the loss of touch. "You were about to tell me what you liked so much about me making you do silly dances onstage."

Alex takes a deep breath and lets it out, shaky. "Just—" he says, "the fact that they were so stupid, and embarrassing, and you were making me do it." His cock aches; he wishes he could touch it. That was a bad answer. He has to be good, he reminds himself. He has to try and explain properly and then Greg will be pleased, and Greg will let him keep touching himself. Thinking that way helps to clear his mind, make him focus. "And I—I didn't know what it was going to be, what you were going to say. The—the excitement of not knowing—of coming out onstage knowing you were going to come up with something on the spot and I would have to do it—in front of all those people—and I know I didn't have to, I know I had a choice, but I liked—I liked the way it felt like I didn't." 

Greg says nothing for a while—a torturous long while, in which the silence is deafening, or rather it's not silence at all because Alex is aware of distant noises outside the dressing room and _that's_ rather alarming, remembering that there is a world outside of this little corner, the hustle and bustle of the studio continuing on while the two of them do—whatever this is. They might be in a private space, but they're still technically at _work_ right now, and what if somebody comes and knocks on the door? They don't have all night. Panic rises in Alex's throat and the reality of the situation almost draws him right out of the fantasy of it, but then—then Greg's speaking and instantly Alex's attention snaps back to the man in front of him.

"Mm. I suppose that makes a weird sort of sense," Greg is saying. He's—he's definitely looking at Alex's cock, directly at it, which makes Alex squirm. Alex's brain starts to blot out their surroundings once again; his focus narrows and narrows until the only thing that matters is that appraising look on Greg's face.

"Go on, then," says Greg. "Tell me another. And keep touching yourself this time."

There are certainly enough incidents coming to mind, but he can't just choose one at random. He's having to weigh up a lot of things—it has to be something he'll be genuinely ashamed to confess, and something that Greg will be satisfied with, something he can work with to humiliate Alex further. And he can sense that Greg wants these little anecdotes to involve _him_ ; that it wouldn't interest him quite so much if Alex admitted to getting excited whenever Aisling Bea was mad at him and sometimes when Alice Levine called him silly names, or when Noel Fielding made him mime a striptease, or when Sally Phillips lay on top of him and shoved cake in his armpits. He's sure Greg would still be delighted with all of those particular little revelations, but something tells him it would be better to pick things that are Greg-specific.

He also needs to actually be able to voice it. There are some things he simply can't imagine saying out loud here in this moment, things too personal to share with Greg and even things he's not sure he's come to terms with himself yet.

"I'm waiting, Alex."

"When you made me pull my trousers down," Alex says eventually; it's something that floats somewhere in the middle, embarrassing to admit to being turned on by, but also not _that_ weird in the grand scheme of things. As strangely comfortable as this dynamic with Greg may seem, it _is_ their first time engaging in anything explicitly sexual, and Alex doesn't feel like has a good enough read on Greg yet. It certainly seems like Greg is getting off on his role at least somewhat, but Alex still has reservations. What if he says something that crosses a line, something that makes Greg genuinely uncomfortable to be around him? Maybe that fear is only heightening the excitement of the situation, but it's still something Alex feels holding him back.

Regardless, Greg seems pleased with the answer. Very pleased—almost as if he enjoyed that moment a little too much too, and is glad for the solidarity, relieved to feel a little less weird for it. Then again, maybe that's just Alex's wishful thinking.

"Yeah? I knew you liked that," Greg says smugly. "Exposing yourself 'cause I wanted you to. And I suppose the added bonus of everybody laughing at your choice of underwear didn't hurt, did it?"

Alex sort of grunts, closing his eyes again as he thinks back on the memory, stroking his cock. It's something he thinks about a lot. Greg didn't _need_ to make him pull his trousers down to prove he was wearing long johns. If that was really all it was about, Alex could've rolled up a trouser leg just as easily and without as much risk of indecent exposure. And Greg's _determination_ —once again it was a time when Alex had demurred, and Greg had insisted. Of course, Alex's objections were merely a gut reaction; inside he was actually terribly excited at the thought of undressing in front of Greg, at Greg's command. And he knew that if he continued to protest, Greg wouldn't have forced it, but there was something about the urgency in Greg's voice, his eagerness, the way he'd reached to forcibly uncross Alex's legs—

"Elaborate, please, Alex."

"You were so—demanding," Alex pants out, twisting his wrist, skimming a thumb over the head of his cock. It's wet, he's so wet, god. Dripping. It's so embarrassing, how needy he is.

"Mm?"

"You m-made me." Alex's breathing is all out of whack and he knows he's getting less and less coherent. "Made me show you my underwear. Made me stand up and—and—take my trousers down in front of you, it was—oh god."

"A bit like this, hm?" Greg says, amusement clear in his tone of voice. "Bet this was the sort of thing going through your mind. Imagining I might take it a step further, make you pull your underwear down as well."

"Oh god, Greg," Alex gasps frantically, suddenly realising—"Greg, I'm—I'm going to come."

"No you're not," Greg snaps instantly. "Not after only two confessions you're not. I'm not letting you get off that easily. Hands off."

Alex makes a very embarrassing whining sound but does as he's told, screwing his eyes shut, clasping his hands tight behind his back and digging in his fingernails, shuddering. Greg gives him a moment to pull himself together, and then—

"One more," he says. God, it's like some twisted version of the show: instead of "show me another task, Alex," it's "tell me another sexual perversion and I'll let you orgasm."

This time Alex doesn't really think it through all that much; isn't capable anymore. "When you made me sleep in the dog bed," he blurts. 

"You _wrote_ that!" Greg says accusingly, and Alex cringes, hanging his head.

"I know. I know." He did; he put it in the script knowing full well he'd get off on it. He's so ashamed.

"Honestly, your perversions know no bounds. It's despicable, really. Using this show as an outlet for all your weird little fetishes…using your poor unsuspecting comedian friends to fulfil your sick fantasies. Imagine if they knew." 

Alex's hips buck forward uselessly, and guilt roils hot and strong somewhere in the pit of his stomach. 

"Well, like I said, I think some of them _do_ know," Greg continues. "You think you're so sly, but I like to look at them sometimes, you know, see if I can tell who's oblivious, and who's got a knowing little smile on their face, like they've just learned something about you that they shouldn't have." 

Alex whimpers slightly; Greg has clearly picked up on this particular aspect of his sexual psyche—the thought of others knowing, and privately judging him; how freaked out they might be, or amused, or disgusted…

"So what was it about that then? Being curled up at my feet, I expect?"

"Mmh." Alex can't seem to speak anymore.

"The degradation of it? Being treated like an animal? Like a _pet_?" 

"And you called me—you said 'good boy'," Alex finds his words again, because this seems like an important thing to point out. "I didn't write _that_."

"No," Greg admits, after a reluctant pause. "You didn't. I suppose it just slipped out." Another pause, thoughtful. "You like praise, then? As well as insults?"

"Not—not as much as insults," Alex admits bravely. "But—some praise is good. Especially, especially after. It makes me feel, you know. Better. About it all."

"I see." Greg deliberates. "So if I were to tell you you were a very good boy for admitting to that? And good boys get to keep touching themselves?"

"Oh," is all Alex can manage; it comes out as more of a moan. He nods frantically to show Greg just how on the mark he is, and Greg grins and it's _evil_. "Can I?"

"You can," Greg nods. "Because you were a good boy."

Alex grasps his cock again, sighing gratefully—"Thank you, thank you,"—he's so close again already, fist moving slick and fast as he bows forward, other hand braced against the carpet.

"No, lean back, I want to see you," Greg orders, and there's something vulnerable in the words that does something funny to Alex's stomach, and he does as he's told, fighting against the instinct to curl in on himself, forcing himself to straighten up, lean back into the corner. Give Greg a better view.

"One more."

"No," Alex gasps. "You already said—"

" _One more_ ," Greg cuts him off. "And you'd better make it a good one or we're just going to have to keep going all night."

"Please let me—I can't stop again," Alex whines pathetically.

"If you come now I'll have to punish you," Greg says airily, and Alex writhes against the wall. Oh god, oh god. A part of him wants to know what Greg's punishment might _be_ but—no, he wants to be good, he wants to please him. He has to hold off. "One more and _then_ you can come."

Alex squeezes the base of his cock desperately, breathes in and out slowly, counting each inhale and exhale until he feels like he has himself marginally more under control. 

"I know you're thinking of something," Greg taunts.

"I'm not," Alex lies, squeezing harder.

"I know you are." Greg's voice goes softer, kinder. "Come on, tell me. You'll feel better."

God, he's so good at this, he's _perfect_. Coaxing him now, being all sweet—at this stage, it's just what Alex needs. 

"It's—" he starts, but the words die immediately, he can't get them out.

"Go on, Alex, it's all right," Greg soothes.

Alex makes a frustrated sound. He starts stroking himself again as a distraction, the pleasure making everything a little more hazy and unreal, making him feel more able to say it. "When—when I—" he stammers, voice faint and wavering. Finally, he gets it out, the words so rushed they almost blend together. "When you made me sit on your lap."

Of course, there was more to it, but that's certainly all he's able to voice. Bringing the incident up at all makes him feel almost nauseous; he knows the risk he's taking, skirting so close to something he can't possibly even _imagine_ talking about. He knows Greg won't be able to resist pushing him further. He feels dizzy, suddenly regretful, but—

"There you go," says Greg softly, and he sounds pleased, and Alex squeezes his eyes tightly shut and works his cock roughly, remembering. Remembering how Greg had patted his knee and Alex had hesitated, in disbelief, his mind shocked blank by the request. And then he'd been so awkward about it, clumsy and skittish, not knowing where to put his hand—and Greg had told him to _put it where you want_ , flustering him further—and his _parents_ saw it happen, and god, the wrongness of it all was just intoxicating—

"That's not all that happened, though, is it?" prompts Greg gently, and Alex's stomach flips over. "I seem to remember you calling me something."

"Greg," Alex begs, overwhelmed. His face is absolutely burning and his eyes feel wet; is he actually crying? God, he's so pathetic.

"Hmm, no, that wasn't it," Greg murmurs, amused.

"No, Greg, don't—don't make me say it." 

"You didn't seem to have much trouble saying it before," Greg teases. "Now, go on, stop fussing. Say what happened and you can come. That'll feel good, won't it?"

Alex nods mindlessly, tipping his head back against the wall, cock pulsing in his hand. He needs to come, he's desperate, and yet it's like his body won't let him until he's obeyed Greg's orders. He's too damn well-trained, he thinks hysterically; right now he sort of hates himself for it. He tries to take some deep breaths but they come out more like he's hyperventilating. He feels a tear roll down a hot cheek.

"You—you made me sit in your lap and I called you—I called you—" Alex makes a noise of frustration, fighting his own mortification, trying to make himself say it. Greg's right—he said it of his own accord in front of an audience and cameras before; but it's different now, it's one thing when you're playing it for comedy, and a completely different thing when you're actually—when you're— _masturbating_ about it in front of someone. There's nothing to hide behind now.

"Go on," Greg coaxes.

"I can't," Alex spits out, distressed, shaking his head. He feels queasy, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. The torment is so acute, so perfectly calculated—it's painful and yet, indescribably thrilling. He can feel himself teetering on the edge of orgasm, his nerves sparking. "I can't, I can't," he mutters desperately, needing Greg to make him.

"Yes you can," Greg assures him simply, no-nonsense, as though Alex is fretting over nothing. "Go on, Alex. You called me…?"

Alex sobs. "D-daddy," he chokes out finally, and shame floods his body, mingling with sharp, pinpointed pleasure in that particular agonising, electrifying way—he's so close now, so close—

"There you go," Greg murmurs, voice gentler than Alex has ever heard it. It's like he knows that this particular confession was humiliating enough on its own that Alex doesn't need any of Greg's deliciously scathing commentary; that, in fact, he feels so raw and exposed at this point that it might merely _hurt_. Greg doesn't even pester him for elaboration—he seems to sense that this is far enough, that they've reached a limit. Instead, he says softly, "You've been such a good boy, Alex, telling me all those dirty things. I'm so proud of you. I'm going to let you come now."

Alex whimpers helplessly, feeling his body fold in on itself at Greg's feet as his orgasm courses through him. He's gasping wetly against the carpet, spilling into his fist, and for a few long seconds it's as if he's fully removed from reality, just cut right out and pasted somewhere else, some kind of endless white void. It's incredible, and ecstatic—

And then all too quickly he's horribly aware of his body and surroundings. Horribly aware that, in actuality, he's crumpled in a ball on his dressing room floor, and his hand and his sweater are both very sticky. He opens his eyes, just a crack, and sees Greg Davies's shoes, a few centimetres away.

"Oh," he says against the carpet. "No."

"Yeah," comes Greg's voice, from very high up.

"God." Alex is already hunched over about as much as he can be, but at the sound of Greg's voice he manages to cringe even further.

"I—yeah, I didn't really think about—you know, after."

"No," Alex agrees, monosyllabic.

Some time goes by. It's probably not very much time at all, but it feels like hours. Alex can hear voices outside the dressing room, which is, frankly, terrifying. And yet he can't bring himself to move. 

And then Greg's voice comes again. "Listen, mate, do you think—do you think you can get up? I'm a little concerned here."

"Oh," says Alex, lifting his head so he's no longer speaking into the floor. "Right. Yeah, no, I can, I just—" his voice falters, "don't want to."

"Completely understandable. This is incredibly awkward." Greg pauses again. "It's just, you know—I think I'd feel a lot better if you were, um, upright, and speaking in full sentences. I feel a little like I've broken you."

"What? Oh. Right. Yes, it rather looks that way, doesn't it," says Alex. With difficulty, he manages to lift himself up off the floor. His knees are sore, so he sort of sits with his legs out to one side. His face feels hot and damp, tear-stained. He must look like he's an absolute mess; he's not sure he'll be able to convince Greg otherwise. He darts a quick glance upwards. "There we go. I'm fine."

"A-are you?" Greg sounds awfully worried.

"Yes," Alex affirms. "Yes, this happens—I just get very—you know, it's all quite, intense." Greg makes a noise of vague agreement. "And then it's quite, well. Shameful. In, er, the bad way."

"Oh no," Greg says, sounding rather panic stricken. "Listen, mate, I didn't mean—I don't want you to feel—I mean, it's fine. I'm fine with all of it. Really. You know, everybody's got a thing."

It's not exactly the best reassurance Alex has ever had, but it does go some way to making him feel a little better, at least until he glances down at himself. There's a very large stain on his Snoopy sweater, which is disgusting in more ways than one. "Oh no," he says, gesturing vaguely. "I can't leave like this."

"It's all right," says Greg, "I'll lend you something."

"I'll be swimming in it."

"You're swimming in that," Greg points out. "And not just because it's drenched in your come, ha ha. Listen, I'll be back in a tic."

"Wait—" Alex says. "Can you—not?"

"What?"

Greg's skill was such that Alex felt sure he must be experienced, but now he suspects perhaps it was merely beginner's luck, if the concept of aftercare hasn't occurred to him.

"Can you, um," Alex says, struggling. This is almost as difficult to get out as some of the things he said earlier. "Can you, er—stay? Just. For a bit."

"Oh," says Greg dumbly, "oh—no, god, of course. Of course. I wasn't, you know, abandoning you, just—just jumping at the chance to escape the awkwardness. But that's—selfish, obviously, and not—not the right thing to do. But no, I'll—I'll make some tea and we can—chat, or—sit in silence, whatever you like. I can even, er, give you a bit of a cuddle, if that's—you know, the done thing."

Greg laughs awkwardly, and Alex can't help but smile. He feels incredibly relieved. He's also vaguely aware that he's never heard Greg stammer so much in the entire time he's known him. "Great, yes, thank you, that would be great." He attempts to get up and fails miserably. "Listen, my legs are a bit—can you—?"

"Right, sure," says Greg hurriedly, reaching out to let Alex grasp his arms and help him up.

That's when Alex notices—"You have an erection." The words aren't even particularly difficult to say, after all that's transpired, and in fact they sort of slip out without him fully meaning them to, because his brain is a bit scrambled.

This time it's Greg's turn to go pink. "Yes, well-observed," he says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"I thought—"

"Yes, well," Greg murmurs meaninglessly, moving towards the kettle. 

"So…it's not just me?" Alex says, his voice meek and hopeful.

Greg turns, looking back over his shoulder. His expression quite clearly says, _are you stupid?_ but Alex still isn't sure what exactly that means. Eventually, reading the utter incomprehension in Alex's eyes, Greg sighs. "Of _course_ it's not just you," he says. "Jesus, I thought you knew. I was just—you know. Winding you up. With the—all of the—you know, acting like you're a total freak and that. It was part of the whole— _thing_."

"You mean…" says Alex blankly.

"Yes, all right?" says Greg testily, with his back to Alex, busying himself with putting the kettle on. "I mean, not quite as much as _you_ , but—come on. Surely you could tell."

"Well, yes, I thought—but you're a very good actor."

"Listen," says Greg with a long-suffering sort of sigh, "put your dick away and let's have a cup of tea and talk about it."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [desperate nervous twitch of a man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17742956) by [Sashataakheru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sashataakheru/pseuds/Sashataakheru)




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